Mob Job
by Dark Puck
Summary: A series of ficlets and character studies of those employed by one Gentleman Johnny Marcone. Warning: At least one OC contained herein. Chapter seven up. Rated T for language. Concrit welcome and appreciated.
1. One: Hendricks

It isn't easy, being one of John Marcone's bodyguards. Hendricks is privately amazed that he's survived as long on this job as he has, given the absolutely crazy shit he's witnessed since the day Marcone gave Harry Dresden a ride home. Sometimes he thinks almost longingly of the days when he only had to worry about hits from the occasional idiot who felt that Marcone needed to be out of the picture. Mostly he doesn't – a job is a job, and his job is clear.

Even if Spike was killed brutally by a werewolf.

Even if Sullivan annoys him.

Even if Gard gives him the creeps.

Even if the job itself is getting more and more dangerous.

But Hendricks doesn't even consider the possibility of retiring, or even renegotiating his contract. He likes where he is, and his job is rarely boring these days. It's where he belongs. And so he remains, even with Marcone's other bodyguards steadily growing more… inhuman.

Fenrir Sullivan, an ever-smiling blond bear of a man.

Gard, who claims to come from the Monoc Foundation; very amusing, that.

He wonders if perhaps one of the old gods will appear on Marcone's payroll the next time he turns around. Maybe on that day he'll no longer be needed.

No. For all that Marcone has been preparing himself against what the supernatural world may throw at him, he has still kept Hendricks close at hand. He is still needed, because the mundane world will also make attempts on his employer's life. And Hendricks is there to make sure those attempts fail.

* * *

_No, this isn't an attempt to garner Cujo Hendricks more fans. Really, it's not._

_Standard disclaimers apply. blah blah blah, only one of these characters belongs to me, everyone else belongs to Jim, Finn Sullivan is mine and mine alone, etc etc etc._

_**EDIT 01-27-07**: This fanfic and all characters herein, including Finn, are part of the book series' continuity. If you're looking for TV-verse, please look elsewhere. Thank you.  
_


	2. Two: Barman

There's something strange about Fenrir Sullivan.

Everyone has noticed that despite his annoying, omnipresent cocky grin, there are times when sadness appears in his eyes – sadness that is quickly replaced by near-murderous anger. Then there is the question as to why Sullivan is exempt from the general 'look professional' policy Gentleman Johnny Marcone has his employees adhere to. No matter which way you cut it, snap-pants and a loose t-shirt are not professional wear.

Of course, nobody is entirely sure how or why the young man went from customer to employee three years before, or even why he was hired to begin with. It's quite unusual, and there are more than a few rumours circulating around as to Sullivan's true nature – a nature that only Sullivan and Marcone can be certain of. Slowly, however, Sullivan proves himself to the rest of Marcone's employees, whether by demonstrating he can handle arrest and subsequent interrogation, by handling himself well while under cover, or by the Irish Cream he makes and hands out every Christmas.

Soon, nobody gives much thought to his presence, save for Hendricks – but then again, the blond and the redhead have never gotten along well, so this is to be expected, really.

And then the zombies attack. While Hendricks and Miss Gard remain back to defend their employer, Sullivan shucks off his shirt and dashes to the fore of the action, ripping his pants off as he reaches the attacking corpses – and turns into a seven-foot-plus grizzly bear. The attack is soon repelled, with miraculously few casualties, and Sullivan retakes his human form and spoils his own valour by having to hunt for his now-missing pants.

There's something strange about Fenrir Sullivan.

But on the whole, nobody minds.

* * *

_Well, you asked for more Fenrir - by which I mean the single review wanted to see more of him. So here he is!_

_ Please remember that while almost everything here is Jim's, Finnbar is mine and will remain so. I don't know why y'all'd want him, anyway._


	3. Three: Babysitting

_Sidenote: Continuity-wise, this takes place before chapters one and two. Obviously, these ficlets will not be posted in chronological order. Them's the breaks._

-

There are few things Hendricks dislikes more than babysitting. Babysitting the new guy, Fenrir Sullivan, is at the top of that list. Hendricks isn't sure what he dislikes more about the blond kid – that annoying, cocky grin, or the fact that Sullivan waltzed in off the street and went from customer to bodyguard – a position Hendricks had to prove himself worthy of – in less than thirty minutes.

Hendricks isn't overly fond of being pinned down, either. But here he is with Sullivan, taking cover behind an overturned table after a deal went very, very south. The kid risks a peek over the top of the table, and Hendricks yanks him down before he can get his fool head blown off by one of the… _things_ on the other side.

What they are, Hendricks isn't sure, though he would have sworn they were human before things started going downhill. He's called in for backup, and spends his time waiting on them by trying to find a way to pin this on Sullivan. Unfortunately, there are none – there's no way either of them could have seen this coming. In fact, if he was to be honest with himself, he would have to admit that Sullivan had been acting suspicious of the others from the very start. If he was to be honest with himself.

And there's no denying the sheer hatred rolling off of the kid.

"Hendricks," Sullivan says, grabbing his attention. "Can you fit through that window?"

Hendricks stares at the kid for a moment, then turns his eyes onto the window. After a moment's speculation, he says, "Barely, but yes."

Sullivan nods as that infuriating grin spreads over his face. "Good. It's about to get very, _very_ hot in here." That said, he takes a bottle of liquid and a rag out of his jacket's inner pockets.

Hendricks sighs. "I don't think a Molotov will do much good here."

Sullivan's grin is now cold and frightening. "This one will." He drenches the rag with the liquid in the bottle, then pulls it partway out and corks the bottle before flicking a lighter on. "_En nomine patris et filis et spiritus sancti, amen_," he murmurs, lighting the rag and tossing the bottle over the top of the table.

Hendricks is surprised to hear screams of agony erupt, and stares at the viciously smiling Sullivan. "What the hell!?"

"Holy Molotov," Sullivan explains. "Let's go."

* * *

_Ask, and ye shall receive. More Finnbar, along with Hendricks._


	4. Four: En Garde

Hendricks still does not like the cocky young Sullivan, although since the vampire incident he understands why the boy was hired on. In that and in two other similar encounters, he has proven himself both knowledgeable about vampires and capable of going against them in open combat. Hendricks has also noticed how the young blond reacts to the inhuman monsters – to say that he hates vampires is more than an understatement. The boy seems to become an entirely different person – much colder, angrier, more prone to sudden violence against them. Hendricks would be more nervous about this had Sullivan not also proved that he is capable of controlling himself and following orders.

Thus when Marcone orders him to take the boy on his first non-vampire related hit, he isn't not happy about having Sullivan along. Of course, as with all things when Harry Dresden becomes involved, the hit does not go down as planned. None of them had suspected that Dresden might interfere, or even that he'd be anywhere near the creature posing as an old priest – information that had had to be given out before Sullivan would agree to the assignment. Hendricks is not used to failure, but he knows that whither Dresden goeth, there too goeth mayhem and ruined plans.

In silence, he, Sullivan, and the marksman Liebegott return to their employer to report, but even this simple act hits an unexpected snag when Sullivan, only a step behind Hendricks and Liebegott, is somehow prevented from entering the building. His loud curse alerts the older men to his dilemma, and they turn back to see him holding his nose and glaring at the empty air in the doorway. As they watch, the blond moves carefully forward, and this time they see him walk into solid air, a dim blue glow outlining his body where he hits.

Visibly annoyed, Sullivan lets a feral snarl escape him as he withdraws a few paces, slipping out of his jacket and lobbing the garment at Liebegott. It passes through the entrance without incident and the marksman catches it, his expression one of confusion. Hendricks merely watches impassively as the boy stalks towards them in his third attempt at passing through. Now, however, he is not merely stopped – the invisible wall emits a blue-white flash and throws Sullivan away from it. When he lands several feet away, he doesn't rise.

Hendricks glances at the wide-eyed Liebegott, then grunts in vexation and walks back outside to see if the boy's stubbornness has gotten him killed. He has to travel several feet to reach Sullivan's still form, but it becomes rapidly apparent that the boy is merely dazed. He sits up and spots Hendricks, waving cheerfully as he babbles, "Pardon me, Mrs Teacup, but I would like a few more towels." Hendricks ignores him and pulls Sullivan to his feet, where he wobbles like a drunken man on the deck of a storm-caught boat before adding, "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled fucking peppers."

Hendricks shakes his head and takes hold of the boy's shoulders, turning him about to face the doorway. Two people have joined the bewildered marksman, one of whom is easily recognisable as their employer. Gentleman Johnny Marcone and his tall companion continue past Liebegott to Hendricks and the addled Sullivan, the crime lord looking pleased. "Well done, Miss Gard," he says to the woman before tilting his head slightly upwards to regard his dazed employee. "I trust you aren't too gravely injured, Mr Sullivan?"

It takes the blond man a moment to focus on Marcone, then he proudly states, "A peck of pickled pepper Peter Piper bloody well picked!" Hendricks waits a beat, then delivers a light upswing to the back of Sullivan's head. "Ow!" the boy protests, jolted back into his right mind.

Marcone sighs. "While it was in this case justified, please attempt to refrain from unnecessary violence in the future, Mr Hendricks." Hendricks grunts his assent to this, having enjoyed his one chance to smack some sense into Sullivan.

The boy shakes his head, winces, then focuses intently on Miss Gard, sniffing the air as if to catch her scent. "You did that," he says. "You kept me out. How?"

"Need to know, Mr Sullivan," Marcone replies. He gestures to the woman, and she removes a necklace from her pants pocket. From it dangles a pendant with a rune of some sort etched on it; she hands this to Sullivan as their employer adds, "This will allow you through the protective wards. I apologise for using you as a guinea pig, but I had no way to arrange for another like you to pass through."

There is the briefest of pauses from Sullivan, then he nods, somewhat sullenly to Hendricks' mind. "I understand, sir." He slips the pendant on and excuses himself, muttering something about ice and honey as he walks away, entering the building without incident this time.

Marcone gestures for Hendricks and Liebegott to follow him and Miss Gard; as the marksman falls into step with the bodyguard, they share a puzzled glance. Just what is it about Sullivan that makes him need a special pendant to walk into a building?

* * *

_Many thanks to **Priscellie**, who kindly beta'd this for me as I typed it in exchange for a sneak peek. :D For those who don't pay close attention, this little slice of life takes place during _Death Masks_ and before the first two chapters of _Mob Job_. See you all the next time!_


	5. Five: Where Bear?

Someday, Hendricks will figure out how his employer managed to talk him into raiding an animal control facility in order to retrieve Fenrir Sullivan.

Hendricks has suspected for about a year that Sullivan is not entirely human, and now it seems as though he was right. Despite this, however, he still is unable to keep his disbelief from his face when Marcone takes him aside to tell him that the tall blonde is in fact a werebear – a freaking _werebear_ – and that Sullivan had had the misfortune of being caught in his grizzly form by animal control officials.

Hendricks snorts derisively, but Marcone merely smiles.

The next thing Hendricks knows, he's collared someone and set them to get the layout of the animal control facility while he puts together the equipment he'll need in order to get Sullivan out. Once this is done, he starts putting together a team for the job. While he mainly selects men who are skilled with stealth, he invariably picks the strongest he can find of them – who knows if Sullivan will have regained consciousness and returned to his human form?

He considers asking Gard for assistance, then discards the idea – the valkyrie would probably stare through him, then refuse anyway, and he'd rather not rely on magic if he doesn't have to. No, this will be done the normal, mundane way.

Well.

As normal as you can get when hauling a drugged ursanthrope out of what is essentially animal prison. You can't exactly pay bail to get a grizzly bear out of holding.

The job goes off without a hitch, and they find the drugged bear easily enough. Hendricks frowns, however – it was too easy. One of his team goes in and slaps the bear lightly on the muzzle, attempting to bring it around. "Sullivan!" he hisses.

"What?" murmurs a voice behind them all.

Slowly, Hendricks and the other men turn around to see a groggy-looking, very naked Sullivan reclining against the doorway. Hendricks turns his head to the man in the pen with the other grizzly. "Jacobs," he says softly, "walk away from the bear slowly."

Fortunately, the other man is listening. He does as ordered and escapes the pen without incident, much to everyone's relief. Hendricks turns back to Sullivan and arches an eyebrow. "You're more trouble than you're worth, Sullivan. What were you doing?"

Sullivan grins in return. "Just messin' with the mortals," he replies, gesturing over his shoulder. On the wall, Hendricks can just make out the words _YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED, APES_.

Hendricks rolls his eyes, digs into his backpack, and throws a pair of pants at the blond. "Put those on. We're leaving."

On the way back to the rendezvous, Sullivan hooks an arm over Hendricks' shoulders. "I thought you didn't like me."

"I don't," Hendricks replies, removing the other man's arm.

Sullivan grins wickedly. "Then why did you bring me pants?"

Hendricks shoots him a withering stare. "Because I'd like to have sex tonight."

Sullivan puts on an expression of over-startled surprise. "Why, Hendricks! I never knew!"

The redhead grinds his teeth and growls, "And if _you_ would like to become a eunuch, then by all means, keep talking."

"Besides," Jacobs mutters, "there's only so much bleach the human mind can take."

Sullivan is immediately distracted from ribbing Hendricks, and Hendricks decides that he's due in for a raise.

* * *

_Many thanks to Priscilla for being my beta yet again. Thanks also to GG Crono for the writing on the wall and to Priss again for the 'bleach' line. D I love you guys!  
_


	6. Six: Barman and Lawman

Of all the people Hendricks expects to find knocking at his door on his day off, Fenrir Sullivan is not one of them. He opens his mouth to tell the younger man to get the hell off his property, but then the blond's appearance registers with his mind. He's wearing normal street clothes as opposed to his usual Flasher's Delight, and these clothes are rumpled and stained, as if he's not changed them in some time. His blond hair is matted and unkempt, and he looks to have at least a day's growth of beard. But, perhaps most importantly, Hendricks notices the utter fear in the ursanthrope's eyes.

In the past, he has seen Sullivan face down vampires and zombies without batting an eye, as well as other creatures. Never once has he seen him actually look frightened. Hendricks makes his decision quickly, reaching out and pulling Sullivan inside a bit harder than truly necessary.

As the werebear fetches up sharply against the wall, Hendricks closes the door, locks it, and reaches out to engage the security system. Sullivan grabs his arm and says, "It'll short out," which means one thing to Hendricks.

A wizard.

Red streaks across his vision, and he slams Sullivan into the wall a second time, pinning him there. "You stupid, unthinking, selfish son of a bitch!" he snarls into the blond's startled face. "If _anything_ happens to—"

"Daddy?"

Both men freeze, then Hendricks releases the smaller man to turn and glance at his young son. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the dawning comprehension in Sullivan's face. "Daniel," he says softly, "go back upstairs and see to your mother." The boy opens his mouth to protest, notes his father's expression, and obeys.

Once he is gone, Hendricks turns his angry glare back on Sullivan. "Give me one good reason not to throw you out right now."

"Wardens don't hurt kids," is the prompt reply. Sullivan may not always consider the consequences of his actions, Hendricks reflects, but he thinks fast on his feet. "And mortals are outside their jurisdiction," the blond adds after a beat.

Hendricks scowls. Sullivan's definition of 'mortal' is fairly loose and only includes himself within it about half the time. Rather than demand to know what he means by that, however, he asks, "What, precisely, is a Warden?" Important questions now. Beat the hell out of Sullivan later.

The blond takes a deep breath. "Wardens are essentially wizard cops. Only less cop and more Gestapo. Hell, the Gestapo might think that Wardens go overboard."

"In Soviet Wizardom, TV watches you?" he asks, raising a brow.

"Not quite. But breaking wizard law usually has one penalty. Death."

"And you're guilty."

"That's just it. I don't know. I don't know what the laws are. But I _do_ know this guy's been tailing me since I left a friend's last night."

Hendricks glowers at Sullivan again, then nods. "Fine. But if anything happens to—"

"I'd let you," he says softly, his ubiquitous grin absent.

Someone knocks on the door, and Sullivan jumps a foot in the air. Hendricks turns him around and pushes him towards the back of the house. "Stay in the kitchen." That done, he turns his attention to the front door, slipping his wedding ring into his pocket before unlocking it and opening it as far as the chain will allow.

A man is standing on his front porch, a man taller than Sullivan but shorter than Hendricks, looking to be in his late forties or early fifties. His grey-streaked hair is drawn back from his thin face in a low ponytail, and he's dressed simply, in black fatigues. This man would not look out of place in the Special Forces were it not for the length of his hair and the – yes, that is definitely a broadsword on his hip. Hendricks casually reaches for the shotgun mounted over the entrance, the door hiding his movement from the man on the step. He levels a glare at the intruder, who returns it full force, but with a hint of weariness under the steel in his expression.

Both Sullivan and Gard have mentioned a war between vampires and wizards from time to time. This man looks as though he's been to the front lines and back. As this thought crosses his mind, Hendricks realises that Sullivan may not be in as much danger as he thinks he is.

"What do you want?" the bodyguard growls. The realisation is not a mood-improving one.

The Warden reaches into his pocket – unseen, Hendricks prepares to bring the shotgun around to bear – and produces a photograph of Sullivan in his early twenties with a girl who can't be over twelve. "I'm looking for this man," he says, that same weariness in his voice. "His name is Raoul Tyler."

Well.

How interesting.

"Can't help you," Hendricks says, closing the door.

Or trying to. The Warden plants one large hand against the wood and exerts pressure, halting its movement. "You're lying," he growls.

"I don't know any kids named Tyler," the redhead replies.

"He'd be older now, nearer to thirty."

"Still don't know 'im. And unless you want to spend the rest of the day cooling your heels in prison, I suggest you get off my property before I call the cops." Adding a gamble to his bluff, Hendricks stares coolly into the Warden's eyes. As anticipated, the slightly shorter man averts his gaze.

"Very well," he growls, frustration evident in his tone. He pockets the picture and stalks away in a fashion that makes Hendricks feel that Sullivan – or whatever his _real_ name is – will not enjoy it when the Warden finally catches up with him.

He relocks the door and strides to the kitchen, where the younger man is bent over the sink, attempting to wash his face. "We need to talk, Raoul Tyler."

The blond jerks in surprise and smacks the top of his head against the shadow box situated over the sink; fortunately for him, nothing falls out of it, though the blistering curse he expels makes up for that.

Clutching his head, Tyler/Sullivan whirls to face him, brown eyes wide and water dripping from his beard. "Where the _fuck_ did you learn that name?" he demands, panic in his voice.

"Your Warden friend used it," Hendricks replies, seating himself at the kitchen island. "He also had an old picture of you." As the blond pales, he smiles. "Have a seat, Tyler. As I said, we need to talk."

"About what?" the werebear asks, cautiously sitting down across from him.

"Exactly who -- and what – you are," the bodyguard snarls. With the Warden's accidental revelation that _Fenrir Sullivan_ is an alias, the ursanthrope has shifted from ally to possible threat, and Hendricks does not tolerate threats to his employer.

With a sigh, Tyler/Sullivan begins to talk, explaining about vampires capturing himself and a close friend nearly ten years previously and how the friend was fed upon until the blood loss killed him. About the Russian wizard who taught the grief-stricken boy to channel sorrow to rage and rage to power in order to fuel the transformation to grizzly bear, and how the two of them used this in order to escape the vampires. How he discovered others who hated the blood-suckers as much as he did, and their subsequent assaults on the vampires in their town.

And then he tells Hendricks of the night vampires attacked his home, placing his younger sister – the girl in the picture – in mortal danger. How he, in the grip of what he describes as an unholy fury, took his bear form and laid waste to every vampire in the house. How he got his sister to safety and then went on a rampage, killing every vampire that he could get his paws on. And how, when the adrenaline and the anger finally died, he had realised that he would have to take drastic steps in order to ensure his sister's safety.

Hendricks nods slowly after Sullivan adds that Marcone is aware of all of this. "He helped you fake your own death and change your name, then offered you a job so you could continue your Buffy impression." When the blond opens his mouth to protest, Hendricks raises a hand. "I don't like you, Sullivan. But I respect you. This conversation did not happen."

Sullivan sags in relief, and the redhead smiles.

"Now get the hell off my property."

* * *

_Many thanks to Rosethorn for being my beta this go-round.  
_


	7. Seven: Child's Play

Someone is screaming. There's a peculiar shrill quality to the scream that says "little girl" to the experienced listener, but anyone can tell she's frightened. This is not the scream of a child who wants another lolly and can't have one. This is the scream of a child being dangled over a fifty-foot cliff with an alligator-filled pool below.

Sullivan and Hendricks are in the middle of an argument; as the scream registers, both of them close their mouths, grab their guns, and slip out of the room to discover the problem. As it turns out, the problem is not something either of them is expecting.

A small girl with dark hair and blue eyes has wedged herself beneath a desk and is fending off any and all comers with a ruler. Even as they watch, she cracks Thwaite a solid hit across the knuckles. She screams for all she's worth, punctuated with sobs, and the occasional hysterical demand for "Mommy!" or to go home, _now._

Sullivan blinks. "Was there a kidnapping scheduled?" he asks.

Hendricks shakes his head, then looks closer at the little girl. "Dresden's daughter," he points out, causing Sullivan to do a double-take of his own.

"Oh, shit. That's not on at all," the barman observes.

Hendricks claps him on the back. "Have fun," he tells the blond before vanishing back into the room.

"Wha – oi!" Sullivan yells, too late. The task of returning the girl home has fallen to him.

His voice attracts the girl's attention, and for just a heartbeat she freezes, her mouth open, stopped mid-scream. Then she flings herself out from under the desk (getting Thwaite another good whack as she does so) and collides with Sullivan's knees. She screams, "FINN! Take me _home!"_ just before bursting into hysterical tears.

Ignoring the looks from Thwaite, Liebegott, and everyone else in the building, Sullivan gently scoops the child up and cradles her against his chest. "Of course, sweetie," he tells her soothingly before directing a death glare at the room at large. "Jacobs," he orders the nearest man, "go tell Mr Marcone I'm bringing Maggie Dresden back to her parents."

The unfortunate Jacobs pales while Sullivan adds, "The rest of you lot get to find out who brought her here and why. I don't particularly care how." The girl buries her face the crook of his neck and clings like a small tick to his shirt. Fortunately, she's stopped sobbing.

Before Sullivan can take her out of the room, though, the newest hire comes up, his face suffused with anger. "Dammit, Sullivan, that's _my_ catch," he snaps, and reaches out to take Maggie. "You get your own bonus!"

Sullivan is the faster of them, and has the longer reach; he moves back, keeping the child out of reach, then pivots and sidesteps, catching Knaps by the back of the shirt and pulling him partly off his feet. "Wrong," he says softly, his tone deadly.

Knaps jerks away and rounds on him. "What the hell do you mean, _wrong?_ I'm the one who saw the opportunity and I'm the one who picked her up!"

In his arms, Maggie shivers and clings tighter, and makes a single, soft whimper.

It's the whimper that does it – Sullivan's own little girl isn't much older than Margaret Dresden, and neither, for that matter, is Hendricks'.

Sullivan steps away from Knaps and nods to Thwaite and Liebegott, who immediately take the new hire into custody. "Congratulations," he says. "You get to have a chat with Hendricks as to why we don't get families involved. And _then_ you'll get to see Mr Marcone."

Knaps goes pale immediately. "What the hell do you..." he starts, before Thwaite rolls his eyes and claps a hand over his mouth.

"Try not to get yourself killed," he recommends over his shoulder, as he and Liebegott steer Knaps out of the room.

Sullivan nods and quits the building, keeping a strong hold on Maggie. "Don't worry, little one," he tells her, gentleness back in his tone. "I'm taking you home right now, but first," he winces slightly, "I need to call your mother and let her know I'm doing it, all right?"

Maggie nods, but refuses to let go of him all the same. Blessedly, she's stopped crying. This call is going to be death-defying enough without her sobbing in the background. Once he reaches his car, he turns to lean against it and pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket, speed-dialling Murphy's number and thanking whatever gods there might be that he had the sense to get the number from Dave's phone.

This is not going to be a pleasant conversation.

She picks up before the first ring is through, and snaps, "Yes, what?" There's an edge of fear to her voice; she's a cop, yes, but she's also a mother whose daughter is missing. This just got harder.

"It's Sullivan," he says softly. "I've got Maggie and I'm bringing her back now." He then holds the phone away from his ear and cringes in anticipation.

There's a heartbeat of silence, then, in the best parade-ground bellow he's ever heard, she shouts, _"WHAT?"_

Sullivan sighs and asks Maggie, "Do you want to talk to your mother?"

Maggie, who lifted her head from his shoulder at the sound of her mother's voice, nods emphatically and reaches for the phone with one hand. "Mommy!"

He passes her the cell phone, keeping on hand on it so it doesn't fall, and prays that this will keep him from jail or grievous bodily harm.

"Mommy!" Maggie says, immediately, and the voice from the phone gets noticeably softer. He can't hear what she's saying anymore, but whatever it is, it calms the little girl down. She says nothing, only listens, and eventually pushes the phone back into his hand and sticks her thumb in her mouth, pacified.

Sullivan puts the phone back to his ear and says, "She's unhurt and I'll have her back to you in fifteen minutes. Where do you want me to bring her?"

"Home," Murphy says, briskly. The cop is back, and there's no trace of the frightened mother. "I assume you don't want to deal with my colleagues, but you will by God answer to me, is that clear, Sullivan?"

"Crystal," he replies, hoping to all heaven that his little girl won't be an orphan after fifteen minutes pass.

"Good. You have fifteen minutes." She hangs up, and something in the finality of the click tells him that if he takes any more time than that he may well find himself missing something vital.

He sighs and puts his phone away before opening the door and strapping Maggie into his daughter's car seat, adjusting everything to make certain she'll be safe. He talks to her the entire time, telling her what he's doing and why he's doing it. Once he's done, he takes a teddy bear from a bag on the floor (_I may need to buy Roslyn a new birthday present)_ and offers it to the little girl.

Maggie doesn't quite snatch at the bear, but she clings to it almost as hard as she'd been clinging to him (he's reasonably certain he'll have five finger-shaped bruises on his collarbone in a moment). She lays her head on the bear's and closes her eyes; her face relaxes, and she stops her intermittent shaking. She'll be all right, once he gets her home.

Sullivan smiles softly, grateful nobody can witness the look on his face, then gets behind the wheel and drives to the Dresden-Murphy home as fast as he can. He makes it with four minutes to spare.

Murphy must have been watching from behind the curtains or something, because before he can even get out of the car she's standing in the doorway, knuckles white on the doorframe. Her eyes narrow when she spots him, and widen when she sees Maggie wrapped around her teddy bear.

Maggie, in turn, sees her mother and instantly starts wiggling in her seat, crying, "Mommy!"

Sullivan wastes no time in getting out of the car and detangling the little girl from her restraints, and is just as quick in setting her on the ground gently before she can fall out of his arms in her haste to get back to her mother.

Little kids are fast; lost little kids seeing their parents again are faster. Maggie covers the yard almost as quickly as her mother gets down the stairs and slams into her arms. Murphy picks her up smoothly and continues towards him, her expression a strange mix of gratitude and murderous. "In," she says, shortly, stroking her daughter's back, and jerks her head towards the house.

Sullivan isn't fool enough to believe that counts as an invitation. He also isn't fool enough to cut and run. He locks his car and obeys the angry policewoman.

Murphy lets him cool his heels for a moment as she takes Maggie into the kitchen and, from the sounds, checks her daughter out and gives her ice cream. The ice cream hypothesis at least is confirmed when they both return, Maggie walking beside her mother, and settle on the couch across from him.

Murphy fixes him with a glare and barks, "Talk."

Sullivan quickly explains to her how he had found out about Maggie's kidnapping, just as swiftly assuring her that the perpetrator has been discovered and is being dealt with, adding, "I have a feeling that my employer will have him dropped off at the station when Hendricks is done... explaining things to him."

A faint smile quirks the corner of Murphy's mouth and is swiftly gone. "I hope so," she says, hugging Maggie against her side briefly. "And I hope he's prepared to give a full statement and confession, because I know there are some SI graduates in Missing Persons and they _all_ like me."

Sullivan smiles coldly. "We would never think of interfering with due process," he assures her. "He'll even be in one piece." _I hope. Natalie Hendricks isn't that much older than Maggie is._

She snorts and stands again, picking up Maggie and moving her to her left hip. "Indubitably. I'll let you get back to the education." It is a pointed dismissal, but a gentler one than he'd been expecting.

Sullivan rises and offers Murphy a slight bow. "Rest assured, lieutenant," he says, a fierce undertone to his friendly voice, "that something like this will _never_ happen again."

"It had _better_ not," she answers, a slight shake to her voice, and her hand flickers across her lower belly. "Or you will all answer to both me and my husband. Is that clear."

Sullivan visibly flinches. "Absolutely," he replies. He has a feeling that if there is a repeat performance, Murphy will make the night he left Curtea Veche look like a friendly misunderstanding.

"Good." She visibly collects herself, then steps back, out of his path to the doorway, and lifts an eyebrow.

Sullivan is quick to leave, though he dares to smile at Maggie before he walks back to his car. He does not mention the teddy bear.

"Bye-bye!" Maggie calls, and waves, before her mother shuts the door.

* * *

_Written with the help and encouragement of Rosethorn. Maggie Dresden is hers, Fenrir Sullivan is mine, Dave belongs to Rebecca Hb, Knaps, Jacobs, and Liebegott don't really belong to anyone, and everyone else belongs to Jim Butcher. This takes place several years after the other chapters. Yes, Finn is a father. Or will be soon. :D I love not going by chronological order.  
_


	8. Eight: Acquiesce

It's three-thirty in the morning when Hendricks' wife wakes him up and tells him she's in labour. Unlike the first time, however, Hendricks was prepared for this eventuality. He even has a baby-sitter in mind for his five-year-old son. At ten 'til, as he knocks on the other man's door, he reflects that possibly he should have told Sullivan his plans.

But this is more fun.

A bleary-eyed Sullivan answers the door. "Hendricks, wha—"

"My wife is in labour," the redhead tells him. "Look after Daniel." With that, he thrusts the sleeping boy into Sullivan's arms and sprints down the hallway to take his wife to the hospital. Happily, it is not a particularly long labour; by ten AM, Hendricks gets to hold his baby girl for the first time.

By ten-thirty AM, he has been kicked out of the room by his wife and by a doctor and told to eat something; Hendricks elects to choose an eatery away from the hospital so he can turn on his cell phone in case there's an emergency with Daniel.

Sure enough, at eleven-oh-five, his phone rings. Sighing in vexation, Hendricks starts to growl, "What do you want?" but before he can say a word, Sullivan's voice comes through the line.

"—ast time, I don't care to see your Council!"

"And for the last time," retorts a fainter, male voice, sounding vaguely annoyed, "I'm telling you you don't have a choice."

Hendricks' eyes narrow. Sullivan obviously wants him to hear this conversation. Why?

"I don't fall under the your jurisdiction. Also, you see the kid? I'm baby-sitting. Come back later."

"I'm not quite that stupid, thank you, Tyler. If I come back later you won't be here. Put the kid back where you found him and let's go."

If Sullivan even _thinks _he can—

"Can't do it, pal. His parents are otherwise occupied."

…the ursanthrope can live. For now.

He hears an exasperated exclamation, though he can't quite make out what it is. "Then find another babysitter!"

"And be killed by his father? I thank you, but no. You and your Council can just wait."

"Fine," the other man snaps. "I'll just wait right here until you're ready to go, then. And _you_ can explain it to my superiors."

"I'm not going. That part about me not being in your jurisdiction?"

"You're in my jurisdiction if I say you are, pal. I don't think anybody's gonna say otherwise."

"One word: Dresden."

"Oh, yeah, right. And how's he going to find out about this?"

"Do you honestly think I don't have this town's only wizard-for-hire on speed-dial?"

"Try to call him and I'll fry the phone," the other man says, flatly.

A whimper, and Hendricks' fists clench. Who does the wizard think he is?

"You're scaring the kid," Sullivan says.

A sigh. "Sorry, kid," the other man says. "Look, this has nothing to do with you, okay? I'm sorry if I scared you. Dammit, Tyler, let's _go_."

"I'm not leaving him!"

"Then think of something to do," the wizard says, and his voice has suddenly dropped into an icy tone. "Or I will."

"If you touch one hair on that child's head, I'll kill you," Sullivan snarls.

Hendricks is already on his feet and heading for the car.

"Do that and you won't live to see the Council. Get ready to go already."

"Make m—"

A blast of static; the phone has died. Hendricks breaks several laws as he pulls out and drives to Sullivan's.

When he arrives, the door is closed but he can hear the yelling from outside. It seems to be the wizard, rather than Sullivan, and he seems to be swearing in pitch-perfect Latin.

Hendricks opens the door (blessing Sullivan for leaving his keys out three months ago) and says, "Watch your mouth around my son."

The man (tall, thin, and dark) pivots quickly on his heel and faces Hendricks, his hands out and a scowl on his face. "And who are you?" he demands.

Hendricks is not impressed by the wizard. "None of your business. Where's Sullivan?"

"Gone to the Council," the other man answers. "If you don't belong here, then get out."

"And why is Sullivan seeing the Council? Last I heard, Council doesn't cover theriomorphs," Hendricks retorts. He supposes he should use the 'silent and stupid' façade he turns on so many, but he is far too angry to care at the moment.

"None of your business," the wizard retorts, mimicking Hendricks' earlier tone to perfection.

Hendricks' eyes narrow. "First of all, I put my son into his care. Second, he is my subordinate. Both of these reasons on their own are enough to _make_ it my business."

"Then take it to the Council," the wizard snaps. "Frankly I think I've gone above and beyond the call of duty already."

"Perhaps my employer will take it up with your Council," Hendricks retorts. "Mister Marcone doesn't like his people being interfered with."

"Then Mister Marcone can go and bitch at the Council. Now get out."

"Not yet. Daniel!" he barks.

His son bolts out of a back room screaming something that sounds like, "_Daddydaddydaddy_!" Hendricks quickly explains to his son that he has a new sister, thereby ensuring distraction for the next few hours, then turns to the Warden. "I leave him in your hands."

"I'll take good care of him," the Warden says, sounding slightly less irritated.

"You'll answer to me if you don't." With that vaguely ominous phrase, Hendricks leaves to track down the Council. This is easier said than done; he has to call in a favour with Miss Gard, who is annoyed at being woken before two on a Sunday, but he eventually gets a location and heads there, prepared to bluff and bully his way in.

Two men are hanging around outside the building whose address he's been giving, talking, and one of them is having a smoke. The moment he arrives, they both begin to watch him, though more unobtrusively than he might have expected.

Hendricks has fortunately thought ahead, and has brought paperwork to back up a half bluff. He'd like to have Miss Gard with him, but bringing a Valkyrie might be construed as an act of war.

As he gets closer, the two men stand a little straighter, and the smoking one drops his cigarette and rubs it out against the concrete.

"I have business with the Council," Hendricks announces, deciding to make things somewhat easier.

"Pass?" one of them asks.

"I'm here on behalf of my employer," Hendricks replies. "He's understandably irked that the Council is attempting to gang-press one of his men into service." He reveals the card that identifies him as one of Johnny Marcone's employees.

The one who spoke takes the card and scrutinizes it, then passes it to his partner and asks, "Does the Council know you're coming?" His partner subjects the card to the same treatment.

Hendricks doesn't speak, only smiles.

They glance at each other, then shrug in unnerving unison, and the one man hands the card back. "Carrying any weapons?"

Hendricks slips the card into his wallet. "No." He _is _a weapon.

"Anything we need to know about?" asks the other one. "Plans to assassinate anyone?" His tone is jocular. Mostly.

"That depends one how this turns out," Hendricks replies. He is only half-joking.

"Don't kill anyone this time, then," is the reply, and they move aside.

Hendricks strides in, and hears yelling in Latin that can only be Sullivan. He pauses midstep as he translates what he heard — did Sullivan just tell someone to eat his shorts?

Apparently he did. Someone else replies, sounding _very_ offended, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Sullivan says. Hendricks has no doubt the blond is crossing his arms over his chest.

"I had been praying I didn't."

"I'm sorry, were you expecting awe?"

"I was _expecting_ a modicum of respect and attention." There is aggravation in the wizard's voice, but no real anger, yet.

"Then maybe you shouldn't have sent the brute squad to roust me out here."

Another rather calmer voice interjects. "Master Tyler, most people begin conversations politely."

And now something new enters Sullivan's voice — fury. Pure fury. "Raoul Tyler is _dead_."

"Master_Sullivan,_ then, if you must."

"I must." The anger is tempered now, Hendricks notes. "And again, if you wanted politeness, perhaps you shouldn't have forced me here."

"If we had asked," retorts the first man, "would you have come?"

"No."

"Then what choice did we have?" the first man asks, in an exaggeratedly patient tone.

"Considering that maybe I want nothing to do with you people?"

The first man just laughs at that.

"Ah. Right, I forgot," Sullivan says, and now there's a silken tone of malice to his voice that Hendricks has heard only when vampires are added to the mix. "Wizards are better than everybody else. Who cares what the lesser races want?"

"You would prefer the vampires get control?" The second man intervenes again.

"I have other obligations than killing every bloodsucker I come across. Face the music; you're about five years too late for me."

"I was merely asking if you felt we should stop fighting."

"Fight all you want. Just leave me the hell out of it."

The second man sighs. "Surely you know by now that we are not doing well."

"Not my concern."

"I am asking for your help, Master Sullivan." The second man is clearly coming to the end of his patience.

"And I'm telling you, 'no'," Sullivan replies. "How many times more need I say it?"

"No is not an acceptable answer," the first man snaps, and then yelps. The yelp has strange harmonics that suggest that someone has stepped very hard on his toe.

Hendricks decides that Sullivan has done enough on his own. "I'm afraid you'll find that it is," he says, stepping out of the shadows. It's worth it to see how high Sullivan jumps.

"Excuse me," a man with white hair and the faint British accent of the second man says, politely. "May I inquire as to who you are and why you are here?"

"You may call me Hendricks," the redhead replies evenly. "I'm here for Sullivan."

"I'm afraid we cannot fulfill that request at this time," the white-haired man says, and clearly dismisses Hendricks from his attention.

"I'm afraid you'll find you can," Hendricks says. He is hard to ignore — beside him, the tall, muscular Sullivan looks small. "You have no right to draft him into your war."

The white-haired man returns his attention to Hendricks, this time visibly annoyed. "No one is drafting anyone."

"You'll forgive me if I disbelieve you," Hendricks replies.

"Sir," he says, "no one is asking for your opinion."

"Look," says Sullivan. "This is my surprised face."

"Master Sullivan," the white-haired man says, his voice under tight control, "will you or will you not aid us in our fight against the Red Court?"

"How many times do I have to tell you 'no' before it sinks in!?" Sullivan demands. Hendricks just shakes his head; in many ways, Sullivan is still a child.

"Master Sullivan." This time it's a dark-haired man with a thin face and the voice of an annoyed gecko; undeniably the first man. "Answer clearly, please."

Sullivan takes a deep breath, and Hendricks covers his mouth. "That's enough, Sullivan," he tells the younger man in a tone that brooks no argument.

"And will you answer for him?" Gecko demands, sounding even more annoyed.

"I will," Hendricks replies. "And that answer is 'no'."

Gecko snorts. "Funny," he says. "I was under the impression that I had already said that 'no' was the wrong answer."

Hendricks elbows Sullivan as the blond begins to snarl. "You have no authority over Sullivan, and therefore you cannot dictate whether or not he takes part in your war."

"Mortals are under the jurisdiction of whoever finds them first," Gecko says, a touch haughtily. "Which includes yourself, _sir."_

Hendricks' grin is all tooth. "I'm afraid you'll find that both of us are under the jurisdiction of another."

"Oh, really."

"We are both employed by one of the freeholding lords," Hendricks says with a vicious smile. "Therefore, in order to draft Sullivan into your war, you would have to make a request of our employer. And I believe that Gentleman Johnny would be disinclined to acquiesce to your request."

The white-haired man lifts an eyebrow, and nods at a subordinate; they have a quiet, hurried conversation before the subordinate runs off. Meanwhile, Gecko has not finished being indignant. "Oh, indeed, and how is it you miraculously appear with this claim now?"

Hendricks and Sullivan grin identically.

"That one's easy," says the theriomorph. "The Warden you sent for me didn't see me call him."

"I heard the entire conversation between them," the mortal confirms.

The look on Gecko's face does not bode well for the Warden in question. "Indeed," he says, again, his tone deep with loathing. "And of course you have proof of this." It is obvious that he thinks they don't.

"Cell phone," Hendricks says simply. "It stores the number and the time. As for proof of our… shall we call it immunity?" He pulls the identification card from his wallet again and holds it up.

Gecko almost turns purple at this.

The white-haired man intervenes again. "Thank you for your confirmation," he says, quickly. "We would of course welcome any assistance from Master Marcone."

"And if you want it," Hendricks says, "then you will need to take it up with him." He turns his gaze to Gecko. "Somehow, I doubt he will wish to assist you after hearing about today."

"We will speak to him and explain our side of the story," the white-haired man says, his voice like iron. "Thank you for coming."

Hendricks nods to the white-haired man and ignores Gecko; grabbing Sullivan by the collar like an errant child, he drags the younger man out. As they pass through the door, Sullivan demands in English, "Since when do _you_ speak Latin?"

* * *

_Random Warden and Council Members played by the lovely Rosethorn. Thanks for your assistance again, lovey! _

Yes, I do give Hendricks more brains than Harry credits him for. Marcone would not hire a stupid man, no matter how many muscles he's got. So there.


End file.
